Grey Cloak and Cold Morning
by meldahlie
Summary: For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; for summer, for winter... The start of a marriage.


Grey Cloak and Cold Morning

'_So this,' _whispered the small voice at the back of Catelyn's mind, _'is what marriage is really about.'_ Marriage is not solemn vows and promises and chantings in the sept; not sweet words and kisses and passionate embraces. Marriage is standing in the chilly dimness of early dawn, alone, cold, and waiting. Waiting to see your man off to war.

War. A cold and chilling word. Catelyn shivered. War had not come to Riverrun openly, not hosts and banners and siege engines. But it was there, like the wind. Unseen – and yet it bore the boats with the men away, down the river. And they did not come back...

"Oh, silly!" Catelyn snatched at her wind-blown thoughts with a shake of her head. "Silly!" she scolded. It was just the cold, and the waiting, and – everything. She turned, and paced back across the grass of the godswood towards the old swing Edmure had fixed up for her and Lysa, what seemed like a lifetime ago. The swing was still there, the wood of the seat silvered with sun and rain, the ropes worn smooth. It was rocking in the wind. She watched it idly, to and fro, fro and to.

It was not really her habit to go wandering about in the godswood, first thing in the mornings. But today was the day of departure: Lysa's new husband Jon Arryn and her own, Eddard Stark, must leave for the war. Eddard had risen when it was still pitch black, vanishing off to the stables or somewhere. It is absolutely useless trying to go back to sleep when somebody has left a draught in the bed beside you, and absolutely miserable to lie awake. It had felt as if she was lying there waiting for the Maester to come to feel her brow and prescribe a drench of bitter herbs for a fever.

She had felt slightly sick, anyway. She had got up, only to find the rest of Riverrun up also. The bustle of early morning excitement all over the castle had not helped, and the smell of food from the Hall had sent her stomach reeling – hence Catelyn Tully Stark was pacing up and down, alone, in the godswood.

The swing had stopped moving at all, now. Catelyn shifted, and discovered just how cold her feet had grown in the dew-wet grass. So had the rest of her. She gathered her cloak tighter. Except it wasn't her cloak. Grey wool, white satin edge: the colours of House Stark wrapped around her as the name, Catelyn Stark, wrapped over the little Catelyn Tully she had been before.

Catelyn felt it, stroked it uncertainly. The Tully cloaks were made of River Longwool: soft, smooth, lustrous, dyed in rainbow hues. The Starks made their cloaks from the short-wool Fell sheep: grey and coarse. The handspinner in Catelyn could tell there was enough kemp left in the yarn of the fabric between her fingers to give all the Septas who had taught her wool-craft fifty fits apiece.

It wasn't that she had to wear it. The trousseau for a daughter of House Tully had many cloaks: everyday cloaks, dress cloaks, light-weight, warm-weight, wool, fur, silk. It was just – somehow, it had seemed important, to her slightly sleep-befuddled mind, rummaging around their room dressing after Eddard had gone. She had known for years that she would become a Stark. And now with Brandon's death despite his assurance he would return, Eddard was trying to fill his place. Same name, same House, a different man. But he was trying – and the cloak was the only way Catelyn had been able to think of, at the last minute, for this last morning, to show him that she was trying, too. A way to overcome the awkwardness of an arranged marriage; the polite, halting conversation; the uncertain future. A way to tell him–

Well, if there was anything to tell. Catelyn looked down, smoothed the front of her cloak again. So much was uncertain, these days. Uncertain, and different. Even Riverrun was different. She had new rooms, with Eddard – the second-best guest chamber, for Lysa and Jon Arryn had the rooms the Tully girls had always shared. Jon Arryn was older, his House the more important alliance. That was quite right, Catelyn knew. She had told Lysa it was fine – but it made Cat feel as if she no longer belonged anywhere.

Would she belong at Winterfell one day? Would it be possible one day to be old? To be grey or white, to walk not alone in the godswood? For Eddard to walk beside her, to call her 'Cat' with the familiarity and love of many years? Would she call him 'Ned'?

She tried the word out in the quiet of the godswood. "Ned?"

"Yes?"

He was there, behind her. As unfamiliar a person in her home and her life as he had been all this past fortnight – and yet there was a light in his dark eyes – a sudden glow that sent her startled wits and polite courtesies vanishing. The flash of eyes for the first time truly meeting, truly sharing.

She looked down, up again, held out her hand and tried to smile – but it had to be the smallest and shyest of smiles.

His hand on hers was as warm as his cloak about her; as warm as his eyes; as warm as his sudden, unfamiliar, surprisingly shy smile...

The sounds of hustle and bustle, the clang of arms, the rumpus of impending departure, filled the castle as thoroughly as the cold fear of war.

_Winter is coming._

It was not winter in the godswood.

Ned stepped back, gently ran his hand over the sturdy grey cloak on her shoulder. "It... suits you." He looked back at her. "Thank you, Catelyn."

So he had understood. So she could tell him. "Ned-" Catelyn reached up, and pulled his hand down, against her, against–

"Ned – we have a child..."

~:~:~

_A/N: So yes, you've guessed it. Until GRRM confirms Jon's parentage on his word of honor as an author, this fic stands as my support for the view that Ned was NOT carrying on with someone else, less than two months later! And also, in honor to my three favorite Starks._


End file.
